JOHN  HENRY  NASH  LIBRARY 

<§>  SAN  FRANCISCO 

PRESENTED  TO  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


ROBERT  GORDON  SPRQUL,  PRESIDENT. 


MR.ANDMRS.MILTON  S.RAV 
CECILY,  VIRGINIA  AND  ROSALYN  RAY 

AND  THE 

RAY  OIL  BURNERCDMPANY 


THE  UNIQUE  HAMLET 


THE  UNIQUE  HAMLET 

A  HITHERTO  UNCHRONICLED  ADVENTURE 
OF  MR.  SHERLOCK  HOLMES 


BY 

VINCENT  STARRETT 


PRIVATELY  PRINTED 

FOR  THE  FRIENDS  OF  WALTER  M.  HILL 

CHICAGO  ILLINOIS  AT  CHRISTMAS 

NINETEEN  HUNDRED  TWENTY 


COPYRIGHT  1920  BY 
VINCENT  STARRETT 


THE 

TORCH 

PRESS 

CEDAR 

RAPIDS 

IOWA 


To 

Sir  Arthur  Conan  Doyle 
with  admiration  and  apologies 


THE  ADVENTURE  OF  THE  UNIQUE 
HAMLET 


4CTTOLMES,"  said  I,  one  morning  as  I 
JTI  stood  in  our  bay  window,  looking  idly 
into  the  street,  "  surely  here  comes  a  madman. 
Someone  has  incautiously  left  the  door  open 
and  the  poor  fellow  has  slipped  out.  What  a 
pity!" 

It  was  a  glorious  morning  in  the  spring,  with 
a  fresh  breeze  and  inviting  sunlight,  but  as  it 
was  rather  early  few  persons  were  astir.  Birds 
twittered  under  the  neighboring  eaves,  and 
from  the  far  end  of  the  thoroughfare  came 
faintly  the  droning  cry  of  an  umbrella  repair 
man;  a  lean  cat  slunk  across  the  cobbles  and 
disappeared  into  a  courtway;  but  for  the  most 
part  the  street  was  deserted  save  for  the  eccen- 
tric individual  who  had  called  forth  my  excla- 
mation. 

My  friend  rose  lazily  from  the  wicker  rocker, 
in  which  he  had  been  lounging,  and  came  to  my 


side,  standing  with  long  legs  spread  and  hands 
in  the  pockets  of  his  dressing  gown.  He  smiled 
as  he  saw  the  singular  personage  coming  along. 
A  personage  indeed  he  seemed  to  be,  despite  his 
odd  actions,  for  he  was  tall  and  portly,  with 
elderly  whiskers  of  the  brand  known  as  mutton- 
chop,  and  he  seemed  eminently  respectable. 
He  was  loping  curiously,  like  a  tired  hound,  lift- 
ing his  knees  high  as  he  ran,  and  a  heavy  double 
watch  chain  of  gold  bounced  against  and  re- 
bounded from  the  plump  line  of  his  figured 
waistcoat.  With  one  hand  he  clutched  despair- 
ingly at  his  silk,  two-gallon  hat,  while  with  the 
other  he  essayed  weird  gestures  in  the  air  in  an 
emotion  bordering  upon  distraction.  We  could 
almost  see  the  spasmodic  workings  of  his  coun- 
tenance. 

"What  under  heaven  can  ail  him!"  I  cried. 
"See  how  he  glances  at  the  houses  as  he 
passes. " 

"He  is  looking  at  the  numbers, "  responded 
Sherlock  Holmes,  with  dancing  eyes,  "and  I 
fancy  it  is  ours  that  will  bring  him  the  greatest 
happiness.  His  profession,  of  course,  is  ob- 
vious." 

"A  banker,  I  imagine,  or  at  least  a  person  of 
affluence,"  I  hazarded,  wondering  what  curious 
bit  of  minutiae  had  betrayed  the  man's  business 

8 


to  my  remarkable  companion,  in  a  single  glance. 

" Affluent,  yes,"  said  Holmes,  with  a  mis- 
chievous grin,  "but  not  exactly  a  banker,  Wat- 
son. Notice  the  sagging  pockets,  despite  the 
excellence  of  his  clothing,  and  the  rather  exag- 
gerated madness  of  his  eye.  He  is  a  collector, 
or  I  am  very  much  mistaken." 

"My  dear  fellow!"  I  exclaimed.  "At  his  age 
and  in  his  station !  And  why  should  he  be  seek- 
ing us?  When  we  settled  that  last  bill — " 

"Of  books,"  said  my  friend,  severely.  "He 
is  a  professional  book  collector.  His  line  is 
Caxtons,  Elzevirs,  Gutenberg  Bibles,  folios ;  not 
the  sordid  reminders  of  unpaid  grocery  ac- 
counts and  tobacconists '  debits.  See,  he  is  turn- 
ing in  here,  as  I  expected,  and  in  a  moment  he 
will  stand  upon  our  hearthrug  and  tell  us  the 
harrowing  tale  of  an  unique  volume  and  its  ex- 
traordinary disappearance." 

His  eyes  gleamed  and  he  rubbed  his  hands  to- 
gether in  profound  satisfaction.  I  could  not  but 
hope  that  Holmes 's  conjecture  was  correct,  for 
he  had  had  little  to  occupy  his  mind  for  some 
weeks,  and  I  lived  in  constant  fear  that  he  would 
seek  that  stimulation  his  active  brain  required 
in  the  long-tabooed  cocaine  bottle. 

As  Holmes  finished  speaking  the  man's  ring 
at  the  doorbell  echoed  through  the  apartment; 


hurried  feet  sounded  upon  the  stairs,  while  the 
wailing  voice  of  Mrs.  Hudson,  raised  in  agon- 
ized protest,  could  only  have  been  occasioned  by 
frustration  of  her  coveted  privilege  of  bearing 
his  card  to  us.  Then  the  door  burst  violently 
inward  and  the  object  of  our  analysis  staggered 
to  the  center  of  the  room  and,  without  announc- 
ing his  intention  by  word  or  sign,  pitched  head- 
foremost onto  our  center  rug.  There  he  lay,  a 
magnificent  ruin,  with  his  head  on  the  fringed 
border  and  his  feet  in  the  coal  scuttle;  and 
sealed  within  his  lifeless  lips  the  amazing  story 
he  had  come  to  tell — for  that  it  was  amazing 
we  could  not  doubt,  in  the  light  of  our  client's 
extraordinary  behavior. 

Holmes  quickly  ran  for  the  brandy  bottle, 
while  I  knelt  beside  the  stricken  mountain  of 
flesh  and  loosened  the  wilted  neckband.  He  was 
not  dead,  and,  when  we  had  forced  the  nozzle  of 
the  flask  between  his  teeth,  he  sat  up  in  groggy 
fashion,  passing  a  dazed  hand  across  his  eyes. 
Then  he  scrambled  to  his  feet  with  an  embar- 
rassed apology  for  his  weakness,  and  fell  into 
the  chair  which  Holmes  held  invitingly  toward 
him. 

"That  is  right,  Mr.  Harrington  Edwards, " 
said  my  companion,  soothingly.  "Be  quite 
calm,  my  dear  Sir,  and  when  you  have  recovered 

10 


your  composure  you  will  find  us  ready  to  listen 
to  your  story." 

"You  know  me  then?"  cried  our  sudden  vis- 
itor, with  pride  in  his  voice  and  surprised  eye- 
brows lifted. 

"I  had  never  heard  of  you  until  this  moment, 
but  if  you  wish  to  conceal  your  identity  it  would 
be  well  for  you  to  leave  your  bookplates  at 
home."  As  Holmes  spoke  he  handed  the  other 
a  little  package  of  folded  paper  slips,  which  he 
had  picked  from  the  floor.  "They  fell  from 
your  hat  when  you  had  the  misfortune  to 
tumble, ' '  he  added,  with  a  whimsical  smile. 

"Yes,  yes,"  cried  the  collector,  a  deep  blush 
spreading  over  his  features.  "I  remember 
now;  my  hat  was  a  little  large  and  I  folded  a 
number  of  them  and  placed  them  beneath  the 
sweatband.  I  had  forgotten." 

"Bather  shabby  usage  for  a  handsome  etched 
plate,"  smiled  my  companion,  "but  that  is  your 
affair.  And  now,  Sir,  if  you  are  quite  at  ease, 
let  us  hear  what  it  is  that  has  brought  you,  a 
collector  of  books,  from  Poke  Stogis  Manor — 
the  name  is  on  the  plate  —  to  the  office  of  Mr. 
Sherlock  Holmes,  consulting  expert  in  crime. 
Surely  nothing  but  the  theft  of  Mahomet's  own 
copy  of  the  Koran  can  have  affected  you  so 
amazingly." 

11 


Mr.  Harrington  Edwards  smiled  feebly  at  the 
jest,  then  sighed.  "Alas,"  he  murmured,  "if 
that  were  all  it  were !  But  I  shall  begin  at  the 
beginning. 

"You  must  know,  then,  that  I  am  the  greatest 
Shakespearean  commentator  in  the  world.  My 
collection  of  ana  is  unrivaled  and  much  of  the 
world's  collection  (and  consequently  its  knowl- 
edge of  the  true  Shakespeare)  has  emanated 
from  my  pen.  One  book  I  did  not  possess ;  it 
was  unique,  in  the  correct  sense  of  that  abused 
word ;  it  was  the  greatest  Shakespeare  rarity  in 
the  world.  Few  knew  that  it  existed,  for  its 
existence  was  kept  a  profound  secret  between  a 
chosen  few.  Had  it  become  known  that  this 
book  was  in  England — any  place,  indeed — its 
owner  would  have  been  hounded  to  his  grave  by 
American  millionaire  collectors. 

"It  was  in  the  possession  of  my  friend — I 
tell  you  this  in  the  strictest  confidence,  as  be- 
tween adviser  and  client — of  my  friend,  Sir 
Nathaniel  Brooke-Bannerman,  whose  place  at 
Walton-on- Walton  is  next  to  my  own.  A  scant 
two  hundred  yards  separate  our  dwellings,  and 
so  intimate  has  been  our  friendship  that  a  few 
years  ago  the  fence  between  our  estates  was  re- 
moved, and  each  roamed  or  loitered  at  will 
about  the  other's  preserves. 

12 


"For  some  years,  now,  I  have  been  at  work 
on  my  greatest  book — my  magnum  opus.  It 
was  to  be  also  my  last  book,  embodying  the  re- 
sults of  a  lifetime  of  study  and  research.  Sir, 
I  know  Elizabethan  London  better  than  any 
man  alive,  better  than  any  man  who  ever  lived, 
I  sometimes  think — "  He  burst  suddenly  into 
tears. 

"There,  there, "  said  Sherlock  Holmes,  gent- 
ly. "Do  not  be  distressed.  It  is  my  business  to 
help  people  who  are  unhappy  by  reason  of  great 
losses.  Be  assured,  I  shall  help  you.  Pray  con- 
tinue with  your  interesting  narrative.  What 
was  this  book — which,  I  take  it,  in  some  man- 
ner has  disappeared?  You  borrowed  it  from 
your  friend  f" 

"That  is  what  I  am  coming  to,"  said  Mr. 
Harrington  Edwards,  drying  his  tears,  "but  as 
for  help,  Mr.  Holmes,  I  fear  that  is  beyond  even 
you.  Yet,  as  a  court  of  last  resort,  I  came  to 
you,  ignoring  all  intermediate  agencies. 

"Let  me  resume  then:  As  you  surmise,  I 
needed  this  book.  Knowing  its  value,  which 
could  not  be  fixed,  for  the  book  is  priceless,  and 
knowing  Sir  Nathaniel's  idolatry  of  it,  I  hesi- 
tated long  before  asking  the  loan  of  it.  But  I 
had  to  have  it,  for  without  it  my  work  could  not 
be  completed,  and  at  length  I  made  the  request. 

13 


I  suggested  that  I  go  to  his  home,  and  go 
through  the  volume  under  his  own  eyes,  he  sit- 
ting at  my  side  throughout  my  entire  examina- 
tion, and  servants  stationed  at  every  door  and 
window,  with  fowling  pieces  in  their  hands. 

"You  can  imagine  my  astonishment  when  Sir 
Nathaniel  laughed  at  my  suggested  precautions. 
'My  dear  Edwards,'  he  said,  'that  would  be  all 
very  well  were  you  Arthur  Bambidge  or  Sir 
Homer  Nantes  (mentioning  the  two  great  men 
of  the  British  Museum),  or  were  you  Mr.  Henry 
Hutterson,  the  American  railroad  magnate ;  but 
you  are  my  friend  Edwards,  and  you  shall  take 
the  book  home  with  you  for  as  long  as  you  like. ' 
I  protested  vigorously,  I  assure  you,  but  he 
would  have  it  so,  and  as  I  was  touched  by  this 
mark  of  his  esteem,  at  length  I  permitted  him 
to  have  it  his  own  way.  My  God !  If  I  had  re- 
mained adamant!  If  I  had  only — " 

He  broke  off  and  for  a  moment  stared  fixedly 
into  space.  His  eyes  were  directed  at  the  Per- 
sian slipper  on  the  wall,  in  the  toe  of  which 
Holmes  kept  his  tobacco,  but  we  could  see  that 
his  thoughts  were  far  away. 

"Come,  Mr.  Edwards,"  said  Holmes,  firmly. 
"You  are  agitating  yourself  unduly.  And  you 
are  unreasonably  prolonging  our  curiosity. 
You  have  not  yet  told  us  what  this  book  is." 

14 


Mr.  Harrington  Edwards  gripped  the  arm  of 
the  chair  in  which  he  sat,  with  tense  fingers. 
Then  he  spoke,  and  his  voice  was  low  and  thril- 
ling: 

"The  book  was  a  *  Hamlet'  quarto,  dated 
1602,  presented  by  Shakespeare  to  his  friend 
Drayton,  with  an  inscription  four  lines  in 
length,  written  and  signed  by  the  Master,  him- 
self!" 

"My  dear  sir!"  I  exclaimed.  Holmes  blew  a 
long,  slow  whistle  of  astonishment. 

"  It  is  true, ' '  cried  the  collector.  <  '  That  is  the 
book  I  borrowed,  and  that  is  the  book  I  lost! 
The  long-sought  quarto  of  1602,  actually  in- 
scribed in  Shakespeare's  own  hand !  His  great- 
est drama,  in  an  edition  dated  a  year  earlier 
than  any  that  is  known ;  a  perfect  copy,  and  with 
four  lines  in  his  handwriting !  Unique !  Extra- 
ordinary !  Amazing !  Astounding !  Colossal ! 
Incredible!  Un— " 

He  seemed  wound  up  to  continue  indefinitely, 
but  Holmes,  who  had  sat  quite  still  at  first, 
shocked  by  the  importance  of  the  loss,  inter- 
rupted the  flow  of  adjectives. 

"I  appreciate  your  emotion,  Mr.  Edwards," 
he  said,  "and  the  book  is  indeed  all  that  you  say 
it  is.  Indeed,  it  is  so  important  that  we  must  at 
once  attack  the  problem  of  rediscovering  it. 

15 


Compose  yourself,  my  dear  sir,  and  tell  us  of 
the  loss.  The  book,  I  take  it,  is  readily  identi- 
fiable! " 

"Mr.  Holmes,"  said  our  client,  earnestly,  "it 
would  be  impossible  to  hide  it.  It  is  so  impor- 
tant a  volume  that,  upon  coming  into  possession 
of  it,  Sir  Nathaniel  Brooke-Bannerman  called  a 
consultation  of  the  great  binders  of  the  Empire, 
at  which  were  present  Mr.  Riviere,  Messrs.  San- 
gorski  &  Sutcliffe,  Mr.  Zaehnsdorf  and  others. 
They  and  myself,  and  two  others,  alone  know  of 
the  book's  existence.  When  I  tell  you  that  it  is 
bound  in  brown  levant  morocco,  super  extra, 
with  leather  joints,  brown  levant  doublure s  and 
fly-leaves,  the  whole  elaborately  gold  tooled,  in- 
laid with  750  separate  pieces  of  various  colored 
leathers,  and  enriched  by  the  insertion  of 
eighty-two  precious  stones,  I  need  not  add  that 
it  is  a  design  that  never  will  be  duplicated,  and 
I  tell  you  only  a  few  of  its  glories.  The  binding 
was  personally  done  by  Messrs.  Riviere,  San- 
gorski,  Sutcliff  e,  and  Zaehnsdorf,  working  alter- 
nately, and  is  a  work  of  such  enchantment  that 
any  man  might  gladly  die  a  thousand  deaths  for 
the  privilege  of  owning  it  for  five  minutes." 

"Dear  me,"  quoth  Sherlock  Holmes,  "it  must 
indeed  be  a  handsome  volume,  and  from  your 
description,  together  with  a  realization  of  its 

16 


importance  by  reason  of  its  association,  I 
gather  that  it  is  something  beyond  what  might 
be  termed  a  valuable  book." 

" Priceless  I"  cried  Mr.  Harrington  Edwards. 
"The  combined  wealth  of  India,  Mexico  and 
Wall  Street  would  be  all  too  little  for  its  pur- 
chase!" 

"You  are  anxious  to  recover  this  book  I" 
Holmes  asked,  looking  at  him  keenly. 

"My  God!"  shrieked  the  collector,  rolling  up 
his  eyes  and  clawing  the  air  with  his  hands. 
"Do  you  suppose — " 

"Tut,  tut!"  Holmes  interrupted.  "I  was 
only  testing  you.  It  is  a  book  that  might  move 
even  you,  Mr.  Harrington  Edwards,  to  theft — 
but  we  may  put  aside  that  notion  at  once.  Your 
emotion  is  too  sincere,  and  besides  you  know  too 
well  the  difficulties  of  hiding  such  a  volume  as 
you  describe.  Indeed,  only  a  very  daring  man 
would  purloin  it  and  keep  it  long  in  his  posses- 
sion. Pray  tell  us  how  you  came  to  suffer  it  to 
be  lost." 

Mr.  Harrington  Edwards  seized  the  brandy 
flask,  which  stood  at  his  elbow,  and  drained  it  at 
a  gulp.  With  the  renewed  strength  thus  ob- 
tained, he  continued  his  story : 

"As  I  have  said,  Sir  Nathaniel  forced  me  to 
accept  the  loan  of  the  book,  much  against  my 

17 


own  wishes.  On  the  evening  that  I  called  for  it, 
he  told  me  that  two  of  his  trusted  servants, 
heavily  armed,  would  accompany  me  across  the 
grounds  to  my  home.  'There  is  no  danger/  he 
said,  'but  you  will  feel  better/  and  I  heartily 
agreed  with  him.  How  shall  I  tell  you  what 
happened?  Mr.  Holmes,  it  was  those  very  ser- 
vants who  assailed  me  and  robbed  me  of  my 
priceless  borrowing  !" 

Sherlock  Holmes  rubbed  his  lean  hands  with 
satisfaction.  "  Splendid  !  '  '  he  murmured.  "It 
is  a  case  after  my  own  heart.  Watson,  these 
are  deep  waters  in  which  we  are  sailing.  But 
you  are  rather  lengthy  about  this,  Mr.  Edwards. 
Perhaps  it  will  help  matters  if  I  ask  you  a  few 
questions.  By  what  road  did  you  go  to  your 


"By  the  main  road,  a  good  highway  which 
lies  in  front  of  our  estates.  I  preferred  it  to 
the  shadows  of  the  wood." 

"And  there  were  some  200  yards  between 
your  doors.  At  what  point  did  the  assault 
occur?" 

"Almost  midway  between  the  two  entrance 
drives,  I  should  say.  '  ' 

"There  was  no  light?" 

"That  of  the  moon  only." 


18 


"Did  you  know  these  servants  who  accom- 
panied you?" 

"One  I  knew  slightly;  the  other  I  had  not 
seen  before." 

"Describe  them  to  me,  please." 

'  '  The  man  who  is  known  to  me,  is  called  Miles. 
He  is  clean-shaven,  short  and  powerful,  al- 
though somewhat  elderly.  He  was  known,  I 
believe,  as  Sir  Nathaniel's  most  trusted  ser- 
vant ;  he  had  been  with  Sir  Nathaniel  for  years. 
I  cannot  describe  him  minutely  for,  of  course,  I 
never  paid  much  attention  to  him.  The  other 
was  tall  and  thickset,  and  wore  a  heavy  beard. 
He  was  a  silent  fellow;  I  do  not  believe  he  spoke 
a  word  during  the  journey." 

"Miles  was  more  communicative?" 

"Oh  yes  —  even  garrulous,  perhaps.  He 
talked  about  the  weather  and  the  moon,  and  I 
forget  what  all." 

"Never  about  books?" 

' l  There  was  no  mention  of  books  between  any 
of  us." 

"Just  how  did  the  attack  occur?" 

"It  was  very  sudden.  We  had  reached,  as  I 
say,  about  the  halfway  point,  when  the  big  man 
seized  me  by  the  throat  —  to  prevent  outcry,  I 
suppose  —  and  on  the  instant,  Miles  snatched 


19 


the  volume  from  my  grasp  and  was  off.  In  a 
moment  his  companion  followed  him.  I  had 
been  half  throttled  and  could  not  immediately 
cry  out;  when  I  could  articulate,  I  made  the 
countryside  ring  with  my  cries.  I  ran  after 
them,  but  failed  even  to  catch  another  sight  of 
them.  They  had  disappeared  completely. " 

"Did  you  all  leave  the  house  together !" 

"Miles  and  I  left  together;  the  second  man 
joined  us  at  the  porter's  lodge.  He  had  been 
attending  to  some  of  his  duties." 

"And  Sir  Nathaniel — where  was  he?" 

"He  said  good-night  on  the  threshold." 

"What  has  he  had  to  say  about  all  this!" 

"I  have  not  told  him." 

"You  have  not  told  him!"  echoed  Sherlock 
Holmes,  in  astonishment. 

"I  have  not  dared,"  miserably  confessed  our 
client.  "It  will  kill  him.  That  book  was  the 
breath  of  his  life." 

"When  did  this  occur!"  I  put  in,  with  a 
glance  at  Holmes. 

"Excellent,  Watson,"  said  my  friend,  an- 
swering my  glance.  "I  was  about  to  ask  the 
same  question." 

"Just  last  night,"  was  Mr.  Harrington  Ed- 
wards' reply.  "I  was  crazy  most  of  the  night; 
I  didn't  sleep  a  wink.  I  came  to  you  the  first 

20 


thing  this  morning.  Indeed,  I  tried  to  raise 
you  on  the  telephone,  last  night,  but  could  not 
establish  a  connection." 

"Yes,"  said  Holmes,  reminiscently,  "we  were 
attending  Mme.  Trontini's  first  night.  You  re- 
member, Watson,  we  dined  later  at  Albani's?" 

"Oh,  Mr.  Holmes,  do  you  think  you  can  help 
me!"  cried  the  abject  collector. 

"I  trust  so,"  declared  my  friend,  cheerfully. 
"Indeed,  I  am  certain  that  I  can.  At  any  rate, 
I  shall  make  a  gallant  attempt,  with  Watson's 
aid.  Such  a  book,  as  you  remark,  is  not  easily 
hidden.  What  say  you,  Watson,  to  a  run  down 
to  Walton-on-Walton!" 

"There  is  a  train  in  half  an  hour,"  said  Mr. 
Harrington  Edwards,  looking  at  his  watch. 
"Will  you  return  with  me?" 

"No,  no,"  laughed  Holmes,  "that  would 
never  do.  We  must  not  be  seen  together  just 
yet,  Mr.  Edwards.  Go  back  yourself  on  the 
first  train,  by  all  means,  unless  you  have  further 
business  in  London.  My  friend  and  I  will  go 
together.  There  is  another  train  this  morn- 
ing!" 

"An  hour  later." 

1  '  Excellent.    Until  we  meet,  then ! ' ' 


21 


II 

We  took  the  train  from  Paddington  Station 
an  hour  later,  as  we  had  promised,  and  began 
the  journey  to  Walton-on- Walton,  a  pleasant, 
aristocratic  village  and  the  scene  of  the  curious 
accident  to  our  friend  of  Poke  Stogis  Manor. 
Holmes,  lying  back  in  his  seat,  blew  earnest 
smoke  rings  at  the  ceiling  of  our  compartment, 
which  fortunately  was  empty,  while  I  devoted 
myself  to  the  morning  paper.  After  a  bit,  I 
tired  of  this  occupation  and  turned  to  Holmes. 
I  was  surprised  to  find  him  looking  out  of  the 
window,  wreathed  in  smiles  and  quoting  Hafiz 
softly  under  his  breath. 

"You  have  a  theory V9 1  asked,  in  surprise. 

"  It  is  a  capital  mistake  to  theorize  in  advance 
of  the  evidence,"  he  replied.  "Still,  I  have 
given  some  thought  to  the  interesting  problem 
of  our  friend,  Mr.  Harrington  Edwards,  and 
there  are  several  indications  which  can  point 
only  to  one  conclusion. " 

"And  whom  do  you  believe  to  be  the  thief !" 

"My  dear  fellow, "  said  Sherlock  Holmes, 
"you  forget  we  already  know  the  thief.  Ed- 
wards has  testified  quite  clearly  that  it  was 
Miles  who  snatched  the  volume. " 


22 


"True,"  I  admitted,  abashed.  "I  had  for- 
gotten. All  we  must  do  then,  is  find  Miles. ' ' 

"And  a  motive,''  added  my  friened,  chuck- 
ling. "What  would  you  say,  Watson,  was  the 
motive  in  this  caset" 

"Jealousy,"  I  replied  promptly. 

"You  surprise  me!" 

"Miles  had  been  bribed  by  a  rival  collector, 
who  in  some  manner  had  learned  about  this 
remarkable  volume.  You  remember  Edwards 
told  us  this  second  man  joined  them  at  the 
lodge.  That  would  give  an  excellent  opportun- 
ity for  the  substitution  of  a  man  other  than  the 
servant  intended  by  Sir  Nathaniel.  Is  not  that 
good  reasoning?" 

"You  surpass  yourself,  my  dear  Watson," 
murmured  Holmes.  "It  is  excellently  reasoned, 
and  as  you  justly  observe  the  opportunity  for  a 
substitution  was  perfect." 

"Do  you  not  agree  with  me!" 

"Hardly,  Watson.  A  rival  collector,  in  order 
to  accomplish  this  remarkable  coup,  first  would 
have  to  have  known  of  the  volume,  as  you  sug- 
gest, but  also  he  must  have  known  what  night 
Mr.  Harrington  Edwards  would  go  to  Sir  Na- 
thaniel's to  get  it,  which  would  point  to  collab- 
oration on  the  part  of  our  client.  As  a  matter 


23 


of  fact,  however,  Mr.  Edwards'  decision  as  to 
his  acceptance  of  the  loan,  was,  I  believe,  sud- 
den and  without  previous  determination. " 

"I  do  not  recall  his  saying  so." 

"He  did  not  say  so,  but  it  is  a  simple  deduc- 
tion. A  book  collector  is  mad  enough  to  begin 
with,  Watson;  but  tempt  him  with  some  such 
bait  as  this  Shakespeare  quarto  and  he  is  bereft 
of  all  sanity.  Mr.  Edwards  would  not  have  been 
able  to  wait.  It  was  just  the  night  before  that 
Sir  Nathaniel  promised  him  the  book,  and  it 
was  just  last  night  that  he  flew  to  accept  the 
offer — flying,  incidentally,  to  disaster,  also. 
The  miracle  is  that  he  was  able  to  wait  for  an 
entire  day." 
."Wonderful!" 

"Elementary,"  said  Holmes.  "I  have  em- 
ployed one  of  the  earliest  and  best  known  prin- 
ciples of  my  craft,  only.  If  you  are  interested 
in  the  process,  you  will  do  well  to  read  Harley 
Graham  on  "Transcendental  Emotion,"  while 
I  have,  myself,  been  guilty  of  a  small  brochure 
in  which  I  catalogue  some  twelve  hundred  pro- 
fessions, and  the  emotional  effect  upon  their 
members  of  unusual  tidings,  good  and  bad." 

We  were  the  only  passengers  to  alight  at 
Walton-on- Walton,  but  rapid  inquiry  developed 
that  Mr.  Harrington  Edwards  had  returned  on 

24 


the  previous  train.  Holmes,  who  had  disguised 
himself  before  leaving  the  train,  did  all  the  talk- 
ing. He  wore  his  cap  peak  backwards,  carried 
a  pencil  behind  his  ear  and  had  turned  up  the 
bottoms  of  his  trousers;  from  one  pocket 
dangled  the  end  of  a  linen  tape  measure.  He 
was  a  municipal  surveyor  to  the  life,  and  I  could 
not  but  think  that,  meeting  him  suddenly  in  the 
road,  I  should  not  myself  have  known  him.  At 
his  suggestion,  I  dented  the  crown  of  my  derby 
hat  and  turned  my  coat  inside  out.  Then  he 
gave  me  an  end  of  the  tape  measure,  while  he, 
carrying  the  other  end,  went  on  ahead.  In  this 
fashion,  stopping  from  time  to  time  to  kneel  in 
the  dust,  and  ostensibly  to  measure  sections  of 
the  roadway,  we  proceeded  toward  Poke  Stogis 
Manor.  The  occasional  villagers  whom  we  en- 
countered on  their  way  to  the  station  bar-room, 
paid  us  no  more  attention  than  if  we  had  been 
rabbits. 

Shortly  we  came  into  sight  of  our  friend's 
dwelling,  a  picturesque  and  rambling  abode, 
sitting  far  back  in  its  own  grounds  and  bor- 
dered by  a  square  of  sentinel  oaks.  A  gravel 
pathway  led  from  the  roadway  to  the  house  en- 
trance, and,  as  we  passed,  the  sunlight  struck 
glancing  rays  from  an  antique  brass  knocker  on 
the  door.  The  whole  picture,  with  its  back- 

25 


ground  of  gleaming  countryside,  was  one  of 
rural  calm  and  comfort;  we  could  with  difficulty 
believe  it  the  scene  of  the  sinister  tragedy  we 
were  come  to  investigate. 

"We  shall  not  enter  yet,"  said  Sherlock 
Holmes,  resolutely  passing  the  gate  leading 
into  our  client's  acreage,  "but  we  shall  en- 
deavor to  be  back  in  time  for  luncheon." 

From  this' point  the  road  progressed  down- 
ward in  a  gentle  incline  and  the  trees  were 
thicker  on  either  side  of  the  road.  Holmes  kept 
his  eyes  stolidly  on  the  path  before  us,  and  when 
we  had  covered  about  one  hundred  yards  he 
stopped.  "Here,"  he'said,  pointing,  "the  as- 
sault occurred." 

I  looked  closely  at  the  earth,  but  could  see  no 
sign  of  struggle. 

"You  recall  it  was  midway  between  the  two 
houses  that  it  happened,"  he  continued.  "No, 
there  are  few  signs ;  there  was  no  violent  tussle. 
Fortunately,  however,  we  had  our  proverbial 
fall  of  rain  last  evening  and  the  earth  has  re- 
tained impressions  nicely."  He  indicated  the 
faint  imprint  of  a  foot,  then  another,  and  an- 
other. Kneeling  down,  I  was  able  to  see  that, 
indeed,  many  feet  had  passed  along  the  road. 

Holmes  flung  himself  at  full  length  in  the 
dirt  and  wriggled  swiftly  about,  his  nose  to  the 

26 


earth,  muttering  rapidly  in  French.  Then  he 
whipped  out  a  glass,  the  better  to  examine  a 
mark  that  had  caught  his  eye ;  but  in  a  moment 
he  shook  his  head  in  disappointment  and  con- 
tinued with  his  examination.  I  was  irresistibly 
reminded  of  a  noble  hound,  at  fault,  sniffing  in 
circles  in  an  effort  to  reestablish  the  lost  scent. 
In  a  moment,  however,  he  had  it,  for  with  a 
little  cry  of  pleasure  he  rose  to  his  feet,  zig- 
zagged curiously  across  the  road  and  paused 
before  a  hedge,  a  lean  finger  pointing  accusingly 
at  a  break  in  the  thicket. 

"No  wonder  they  disappeared, "  he  smiled  as 
I  came  up.  "Edwards  thought  they  continued 
up  the  road,  but  here  is  where  they  broke 
through. "  Then  stepping  back  a  little  distance, 
he  ran  forward  lightly  and  cleared  the  hedge  at 
a  bound,  alighting  on  his  hands  on  the  other  side. 

"Follow  me  carefully,"  he  warned,  "for  we 
must  not  allow  our  own  footprints  to  confuse 
us."  I  fell  more  heavily  than  my  companion, 
but  in  a  moment  he  had  me  by  the  heels  and  had 
helped  me  to  steady  myself.  "See,"  he  cried, 
lowering  his  face  to  the  earth ;  and  deep  in  the 
mud  and  grass  I  saw  the  prints  of  two  pairs  of 
feet. 

"The  small  man  broke  through,"  said 
Holmes,  exultantly,  "but  the  larger  rascal 

27 


leaped  over  the  hedge.  See  how  deeply  his 
prints  are  marked;  he  landed  heavily  here  in 
the  soft  ooze.  It  is  very  significant,  Watson, 
that  they  came  this  way.  Does  it  suggest  noth- 
ing to  you?" 

"That  they  were*  men  who  knew  Edwards' 
grounds  as  well  as  the  Brooke-Bannerman 
estate,"  I  answered,  and  thrilled  with  pleasure 
at  my  friend's  nod  of  approbation. 

He  lowered  himself  to  his  stomach,  without 
further  conversation,  and  for  some  moments  we 
crawled  painfully  across  the  grass.  Then  a 
shocking  thought  came^to  me. 

"Holmes,"  I  whispered  in  horror,  "do  you 
see  where  these  footprints  tend?  They  are 
directed  toward  the  home  of  our  client,  Mr. 
Harrington  Edwards!" 

He  nodded  his  head  slowly,  and  his  lips  were 
set  tight  and  thin.  The  double  line  of  impres- 
sions ended  abruptly  at  the  back  door  of  Poke 
Stogis  Manor! 

Sherlock  Holmes  rose  to  his  feet  and  looked 
at  his  watch. 

"We  are  just  in  time  for  luncheon,"  he  an- 
nounced, and  hastily  brushed  his  garments. 
Then,  deliberately,  he  knocked  on  the  door.  In 
a  few  moments  we  were  in  the  presence  of  our 
client. 

28 


"We  have  been  roaming  about  the  neighbor- 
hood/' apologized  Holmes,  "and  took  the  lib- 
erty of  coming  to  your  rear  entrance. " 

"You  have  a  clew?"  asked  Mr.  Harrington 
Edwards,  eagerly. 

A  queer  smile  of  triumph  sat  upon  Sherlock 
Holmes'  lips. 

" Indeed, "  he  said,  quietly,  "I  believe  I  have 
solved  your  little  problem,  Mr.  Harrington  Ed- 
wards I" 

"My  dear  Holmes  I"  I  cried,  and  "My  dear 
Sir!"  cried  our  client. 

"I  have  yet  to  establish  a  motive,"  confessed 
my  friend,  "but  as  to  the  main  facts  there  can 
be  no  question." 

Mr.  Harrington  Edwards  fell  into  a  chair, 
white  and  shaking. 

1 '  The  book, ' '  he  croaked.    '  '  Tell  me ! " 

"Patience,  my  good  sir,"  counseled  Holmes, 
kindly.  "We  have  had  nothing  to  eat  since  sun- 
up, and  are  famished.  All  in  good  time.  Let  us 
first  dine  and  then  all  shall  be  made  clear. 
Meanwhile,  I  should  like  to  telephone  to  Sir 
Nathaniel  Brooke-Bannerman,  for  I  wish  him 
to  hear  what  I  have  to  say. ' ' 

Our  client's  pleas  were  in  vain.  Holmes 
would  have  his  little  joke  and  his  luncheon.  In 
the  end,  Mr.  Harrington  Edwards  staggered 

29 


away  to  the  kitchen  to  order  a  repast,  and  Sher- 
lock Holmes  talked  rapidly  and  unintelligibly 
into  the  telephone  for  a  moment  and  came  back 
with  a  smile  on  his  face,  which,  to  me,  boded  ill 
for  someone.  But  I  asked  no  questions ;  in  good 
time  this  amazing  man  would  tell  his  story  in 
his  own  way.  I  had  heard  all  he  had  heard,  and 
had  seen  all  he  had  seen ;  yet  I  was  completely 
at  sea.  Still,  our  host's  ghastly  smile  hung  in 
my  mind,  and  come  what  would  I  felt  sorry  for 
him.  In  a  little  time  we  were  seated  at  table. 
Our  client,  haggard  and  nervous,  ate  slowly  and 
with  apparent  discomfort;  his  eyes  were  never 
long  absent  from  Holmes'  inscrutable  face.  I 
was  little  better  off,  but  Holmes  ate  with  gusto, 
relating  meanwhile  a  number  of  his  earlier  ad- 
ventures, which  I  may  some  day  give  to  the 
world,  if  I  am  able  to  read  my  illegible  notes 
made  on  the  occasion. 

When  the  sorry  meal  had  been  concluded,  we 
went  into  the  library,  where  Sherlock  Holmes 
took  possession  of  the  big  easy  chair,  with  an 
air  of  proprietorship  which  would  have  been 
amusing  in  other  circumstances.  He  screwed 
together  his  long  pipe  and  lighted  it  with  a 
malicious  lack  of  haste,  while  Mr.  Harrington 
Edwards  perspired  against  the  mantel  in  an 
agony  of  apprehension. 

30 


"Why  must  you  keep  us  waiting,  Mr. 
Holmes?' '  he  whispered.  "Tell  us,  at  once, 
please,  who — who — "  His  voice  trailed  off  in- 
to a  moan. 

"The  criminal,"  said  Sherlock  Holmes, 
smoothly,  "is — " 

"Sir  Nathaniel  Brooke-Bannerman ! "  said  a 
maid,  suddenly,  putting  her  head  in  at  the  door, 
and  on  the  heels  of  her  announcement  stalked 
the  handsome  baronet,  whose  priceless  volume 
had  caused  all  this  stir  and  unhappiness. 

Sir  Nathaniel  was  white,  and  appeared  ill. 
He  burst  at  once  into  talk. 

"I  have  been  much  upset  by  your  call,"  he 
said,  looking  meanwhile  at  our  client.  "You 
say  you  have  something  to  tell  me  about  the 
quarto.  Don't  say — that— anything  has  hap- 
pened—to it!"  He  clutched  nervously  at  the 
wall  to  steady  himself,  and  I  felt  deep  pity  for 
him. 

Mr.  Harrington  Edwards  looked  at  Sherlock 
Holmes.  "Oh,  Mr.  Holmes,"  he  cried,  pathet- 
ically, "why  did  you  send  for  him?" 

"Because,"  said  my  friend,  firmly,  "I  wish 
him  to  hear  the  truth  about  the  Shakespeare 
quarto.  Sir  Nathaniel,  I  believe  you  have  not 
been  told  as  yet  that  Mr.  Edwards  was  robbed, 
last  night,  of  your  precious  volume — robbed  by 

31 


the  trusted  servants  whom  you  sent  with  him  to 
protect  it." 

"What!"  shrieked  the  titled  collector.  He 
staggered  and  fumbled  madly  at  his  heart ;  then 
collapsed  into  a  chair.  "Good  God!"  he  mut- 
tered, and  then  again:  "Good  God!" 

"I  should  have  thought  you  would  have  been 
suspicious  of  evil  when  your  servants  did  not 
return, ' '  pursued  Holmes. 

"I  have  not  seen  them,"  whispered  Sir  Na- 
thaniel. "I  do  not  mingle  with  my  servants. 
I  did  not  know  they  had  failed  to  return.  Tell 
me  —  tell  me  all!" 

' '  Mr.  Edwards, ' '  said  Sherlock  Holmes,  turn- 
ing to  our  client,  "will  you  repeat  your  story, 
please?" 

Mr.  Harrington  Edwards,  thus  adjured,  told 
the  unhappy  tale  again,  ending  with  a  heart- 
broken cry  of  '  '  Oh,  Sir  Nathaniel,  can  you  ever 
forgive  me?" 

"I  do  not  know  that  it  was  entirely  your 
fault, ' '  observed  Holmes,  cheerfully.  '  '  Sir  Na- 
thaniel's  own  servants  are  the  guilty  ones,  and 
surely  he  sent  them  with  you." 

"But  you  said  you  had  solved  the  case,  Mr. 
Holmes,"  cried  our  client,  in  a  frenzy  of  de- 
spair. 

"Yes,"  agreed  Holmes,  "it  is  solved.    You 

32 


have  had  the  clue  in  your  own  hands  ever  since 
the  occurrence,  but  you  did  not  know  how  to  use 
it.  It  all  turns  upon  the  curious  actions  of  the 
taller  servant,  prior  to  the  assault." 

"The  actions  of — "  stammered  Mr. .Harring- 
ton Edwards.  "Why,  he  did  nothing — said 
nothing ! ' ' 

"That  is  the  curious  circumstance/'  said 
Sherlock  Holmes,  meaningly. 

Sir  Nathaniel  got  to  his  feet  with  difficulty. 

"Mr.  Holmes,"  he  said,  "this  has  upset  me 
more  than  I  can  tell  you.  Spare  no  pains  to 
recover  the  book,  and  to  bring  to  justice  the 
scoundrels  who  stole  it.  But  I  must  go  away 
and  think  —  think — " 

"Stay,"  said  my  friend.  "I  have  already 
caught  one  of  them." 

"What!  Where?"  cried  the  two  collectors, 
together. 

"Here,"  said  Sherlock  Holmes,  and  stepping 
forward  he  laid  a  hand  on  the  baronet 's  shoul- 
der. "You,  Sir  Nathaniel,  were  the  taller  ser- 
vant ;  you  were  one  of  the  thieves  who  throttled 
Mr.  Harrington  Edwards  and  took  from  him 
your  own  book.  And  now,  Sir,  will  you  tell  us 
why  you  did  it?" 

Sir  Nathaniel  Brooke-Bannerman  toppled 
and  would  have  fallen  had  not  I  rushed  forward 

33 


and  supported  him.  I  placed  him  in  a  chair. 
As  we  looked  at  him,  we  saw  confession  in  his 
eyes ;  guilt  was  written  in  his  haggard  face. 

"Come,  come,"  said  Holmes,  impatiently. 
"Or  will  it  make  it  easier  for  you  if  I  tell  the 
story  as  it  occurred?  Let  it  be  so,  then.  You 
parted  with  Mr.  Harrington  Edwards  on  your 
doorsill,  Sir  Nathaniel,  bidding  your  best  friend 
good-night  with  a  smile  on  your  lips  and  evil  in 
your  heart.  And  as  soon  as  you  had  closed  the 
door,  you  slipped  into  an  enveloping  raincoat, 
turned  up  your  collar  and  hastened  by  a  short- 
er road  to  the  porter's  lodge,  where  you  joined 
Mr.  Edwards  and  Miles  as  one  of  your  own  ser- 
vants. You  spoke  no  word  at  any  time,  because 
you  feared  to  speak.  You  were  afraid  Mr.  Ed- 
wards would  recognize  your  voice,  while  your 
beard,  hastily  assumed,  protected  your  face,  and 
in  the  darkness  your  figure  passed  unnoticed. 

"Having  choked  and  robbed  your  best  friend, 
then,  of  your  own  book,  you  and  your  scoun- 
drelly assistant  fled  across  Mr.  Edwards'  fields 
to  his  own  back  door,  thinking  that,  if  investiga- 
tion followed,  I  would  be  called  in,  and  would 
trace  those  footprints  and  fix  the  crime  upon 
Mr.  Harrington  Edwards,  as  part  of  a  criminal 
plan,  prearranged  with  your  rascally  servants, 
who  would  be  supposed  to  be  in  the  pay  of  Mr. 

34 


Edwards  and  the  ringleaders  in  a  counterfeit 
assault  upon  his  person.  Your  mistake,  Sir, 
was  in  ending  your  trail  abruptly  at  Mr.  Ed- 
wards* back  door.  Had  you  left  another  trail, 
then,  leading  back  to  your  own  domicile,  I 
should  unhesitatingly  have  arrested  Mr.  Har- 
rington Edwards  for  the  theft. 

"Surely,  you  must  know  that  in  criminal 
cases  handled  by  me,  it  is  never  the  obvious 
solution  that  is  the  correct  one.  The  mere  fact 
that  the  finger  of  suspicion  is  made  to  point  at  a 
certain  individual  is  sufficient  to  absolve  that 
individual  from  guilt.  Had  you  read  the  little 
works  of  my  friend  and  colleague,  here,  Dr. 
Watson,  you  would  not  have  made  such  a  mis- 
take. Yet  you  claim  to  be  a  bookman ! " 

A  low  moan  from  the  unhappy  baronet  was 
his  only  answer. 

"To  continue,  however:  there  at  Mr.  Ed- 
wards '  own  back  door  you  ended  your  trail,  en- 
tering his  house  —  his  own  house  —  and  spend- 
ing the  night  under  his  roof,  while  his  cries  and 
ravings  over  his  loss  filled  the  night,  and 
brought  joy  to  your  unspeakable  soul.  And  in 
the  morning,  when  he  had  gone  forth  to  consult 
me,  you  quietly  left — you  and  Miles  —  and  re- 
turned to  your  own  place  by  the  beaten  high- 
way." 

35 


" Mercy !"  cried  the  defeated  wretch,  cower- 
ing in  his  chair.  "If  it  is  made  public,  I  am 
ruined.  I  was  driven  to  it.  I  could  not  let  Mr. 
Edwards  examine  the  book,  for  exposure  would 
follow,  that  way;  yet  I  could  not  refuse  him  — 
my  best  friend  —  when  he  asked  its  loan.'' 

"Your  words  tell  me  all  that  I  did  not  know," 
said  Sherlock  Holmes,  sternly.  "The  motive 
now  is  only  too  plain.  The  work,  Sir,  was  a 
forgery,  and  knowing  that  your  erudite  friend 
would  discover  it,  you  chose  to  blacken  his  name 
to  save  your  own.  Was  the  book  insured  1 ' ' 

"Insured  for  £350,000,  he  told  me,"  inter- 
rupted Mr.  Harrington  Edwards,  excitedly. 

"So  that  he  planned  at  once  to  dispose  of  this 
dangerous  and  dubious  item,  and  to  reap  a 
golden  reward,"  commented  Holmes.  "Come, 
Sir,  tell  us  about  it.  How  much  of  it  was  forg- 
ery? Merely  the  inscription?" 

"I  will  tell  you,"  said  the  baronet,  suddenly, 
"and  throw  myself  upon  the  mercy  of  my 
friend,  Mr.  Edwards.  The  whole  book,  in  ef- 
fect, was  a  forgery.  It  was  originally  made  up 
of  two  imperfect  copies  of  the  1604  quarto.  Out 
of  the  pair,  I  made  one  perfect  volume,  and  a 
skillful  workman,  now  dead,  changed  the  date 
for  me  so  cleverly  that  only  an  expert  of  the 
first  water  could  have  detected  it.  Such  an  ex- 

36 


pert,  however,  is  Mr.  Harrington  Edwards  — 
the  one  man  in  the  world  who  could  have  un- 
masked me." 

" Thank  you,  Nathaniel,"  said  Mr.  Harring- 
ton Edwards,  gratefully. 

"The  inscription,  of  course,  also  was 
forged,"  continued  the  baronet.  "You  may  as 
well  know  all. ' ' 

"And  the  book?"  asked  Holmes.  "Where 
did  you  destroy  it?" 

A  grim  smile  settled  on  Sir  Nathaniel's 
features.  "It  is  even  now  burning  in  Mr.  Ed- 
wards' own  furnace,"  he  said. 

"Then  it  cannot  yet  be  consumed,"  cried 
Holmes,  and  dashed  into  the  basement.  He  was 
absent  for  some  little  time,  and  we  heard  the 
clinking  of  bottles,  and,  finally,  the  clang  of  a 
great  metal  door.  He  emerged,  some  moments 
later,  in  high  spirits,  carrying  a  charred  leaf  in 
his  hand. 

"It  is  a  pity,"  he  cried,  "a  pity!  In  spite  of 
its  questionable  authenticity,  it  was  a  noble 
specimen.  It  is  only  half  consumed,  but  let  it 
burn  away.  I  have  preserved  one  leaf  as  a  sou- 
venir of  the  occasion."  He  folded  it  carefully 
and  placed  it  in  his  wallet.  "Mr.  Harrington 
Edwards,  I  fancy  the  decision  in  this  matter  is 
for  you  to  announce.  Sir  Nathaniel,  of  course, 

37 


must  make  no  effort  to  collect  the  insurance." 
"I  promise  that,"  said  the  baronet,  quickly. 
"Let  us  forget  it,  then,"  said  Mr.  Edwards, 
with  a  sigh.    "Let  it  be  a  sealed  chapter  in  the 
history  of  bibliomania."    He  looked  at  Sir  Na- 
thaniel Brooke-Bannerman  for  a  long  moment, 
then  held  out  his  hand.    "I  forgive  you,  Na- 
thaniel," he  said,  simply. 

Their  hands  met ;  tears  stood  in  the  baronet 's 
eyes.  Holmes  and  I  turned  from  the  affecting 
scene,  powerfully  moved.  We  crept  to  the  door 
unnoticed.  In  a  moment  the  free  air  was  blow- 
ing on  our  temples,  and  we  were  coughing  the 
dust  of  the  library  from  our  lungs. 

Ill 

"They  are  strange  people,  these  book  col- 
lectors," mused  Sherlock  Holmes,  as  we  rattled 
back  to  town. 

"My  only  regret  is  that  I  shall  be  unable  to 
publish  my  notes  on  this  interesting  case,"  I 
responded. 

"Wait  a  bit,  my  dear  Doctor,"  advised 
Holmes,  "and  it  will  be  possible.  In  time  both 
of  them  will  come  to  look  upon  it  as  a  hugely 
diverting  episode,  and  will  tell  it  upon  them- 
selves. Then  your  notes  will  be  brought  forth 

38 


and  the  history  of  another  of  Mr.  Sherlock 
Holmes'  little  problems  shall  be  given  to  the 
world." 

"It  will  always  be  a  reflection  upon  Sir  Na- 
thaniel, "  I  demurred. 

"He  will  glory  in  it,"  prophesied  Sherlock 
Holmes.  '  *  He  will  go  down  in  bookish  chronicle 
with  Chatterton,  and  Ireland,  and  Payne  Collier. 
Mark  my  words,  he  is  not  blind  even  now  to  the 
chance  this  gives  him  for  sinister  immortality. 
He  will  be  the  first  to  tell  it."  (And  so,  indeed, 
it  proved,  as  this  narrative  suggests.) 

"But  why  did  you  preserve  the  leaf  from 
Hamlet  I"  I  curiously  inquired.  "Why  not  a 
jewel  from  the  binding?" 

Sherlock  Holmes  chuckled  heartily.  Then  he 
slowly  unfolded  the  page  in  question,  and  direct- 
ed a  humorous  finger  at  a  spot  upon  the  page. 

"A  fancy,"  he  responded,  "to  preserve  so 
accurate  a  characterization  of  either  of  our 
friends.  The  line  is  a  real  jewel.  See,  the  good 
Polonius  says:  'That  he  is  mad,  'tis  true:  'tis 
true  'tis  pittie;  and  pittie  it  is  true.9  There  is 
as  much  sense  in  Master  Will  as  in  Hafiz  or 
Confucius,  and  a  greater  felicity  of  expres- 
sion. .  .  Here  is  London,  and  now,  my  dear 
Watson,  if  we  hasten  we  shall  be  just  in  time  for 
Zabriski's  matinee!" 

39 


